I took a pto day today, as I have more time off due to me than anyone else I know. I slept in, went out for breakfast, picked up some groceries and will kick back and watch a couple of movies this afternoon. On my way into the Golden House this morning, I spotted Jerry across the street, walking out of the Uptown Bank Building. I tried to duck in before he saw me, but two minutes later he’s making himself comfortable across the table from me. Seeing him awake before noon was odd, but seeing him wearing his only suit (borrowed from the Rockford Files wardrobe dept) made even less sense. I found myself looking for Angel or Sgt. Becker somewhere close by.
So, he goes on to tell me that he’s done smoking pot and he’s been going to worship services. At that point, you could have stabbed me in the eye with a fork and I wouldn’t have budged. For the last 20 years the longest he’s gone without lighting up is three days, and that’s only because he was locked up over a holiday weekend. See, Jerry is Rogers Park’s very own Charlie Sheen, but without the money, women or fame. I’ll give him credit for quitting drugs years ago, but it’s always pissed me off that he continued to smoke up while he lived off my tax dollars.
Apparently, Jerry made some new friends at a yoga class of sorts a couple of months ago. These new friends have a small, budding church in Berwyn and have been witnessing all over town. I suppose they’ve run the Greyhound stations and Youth Centers dry for recruits, because now they’re offering Yoga classes in Rec Centers and old gas stations, and wait for deadheads and what-nots like Jerry to show up. Evidently, this Yoga stuff must the last straw for people seeking inner peace. And I always thought it was marrying an ugly woman who can cook and cut grass. Excuse me, I digress. So, Jerry has been clean for five weeks and now he’s looking for a job, any job, so he can help support his church. He went on to tell me that his church believes that the world will end February 5, 2012, which is the same day as Super Bowl XLVI. I guess the next step now is to buy a purple warm-up, a new pair of sneakers and move into a compound of sorts, in some desolate place, like Detroit.